


With My Hands

by NorthernRose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ROMANCE, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - World War I, F/M, Injury Recovery, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon Snow is Not a Stark, Nursing, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, WW1 fic, some brief mentions of war and violence but this is essentially a romance, that's right...Sansa is a regular Florence Nightingale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24161515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernRose/pseuds/NorthernRose
Summary: Everything was blank then, until flashes and hazy recollections filtered through his drugged state, what was real and what was a dream, he’ll never know. There was the fresh jolt of pain when he was carried from the army ambulance, the white and red cross painted on the side still fresh in his mind. There were ordered barked, the slide of scissors against his uniform as it was cut from his body, the tutting and tsking and shouts for more water, but all in a soft voice, sweet and gentle as his mothers had one been. There was flashes of copper and auburn and a warm palm to his cheek… and then blessedly, thankfully, there was peace at last.*Jon returns from the trenches in France after being gravelly injured. He is begrudgingly sent to Winterfell Manor to convalesce before hopefully returning to his company and his men at the front. That is, until, he meets a certain Nurse.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 106





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> You may have seen some depictions of Convalescence Homes in text and film in the past (Downton Abbey) springs to mind.   
> My great grandmother was a nurse (like me!) and made mention of them in her memoirs which has inspired me greatly in the fic. 
> 
> They were common during WW1, to free much needed space in hospitals but still support soldiers who needed time to recover or adapt to their injuries (this is before the National Health Service came to be). 
> 
> Our characters will be much as we know them. Jon has sustained significant injuries and is angry and bitter, so he needs a little slack at the beginning.   
> Sansa has trained as a nurse, and is desperate to work in a proper hospital in London, but agreed that if her parents allowed their sweet Lady to nurse as she wanted to, that she would remain closer to home until the time was right. 
> 
> Winterfell in set in Kent (only largely due to its close proximity to London and to Dover and France. Allow me my indulgences. 
> 
> You may not know, but I am a nurse in the real world, so medicine through different time periods has always been something I have always been very interested in, we don't get the fun uniforms anymore, but hey, we have sterilisation and antibiotics, so who am I to complain? 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this loosely inspired Downton Abbey/real life/War time love story. 
> 
> Here is a brief introduction to our characters, as they meet (not so successfully) for the first time.

Jon does not recall how he got here.

He remembers the journey across the Channel, he would never forget every agonising roll of the boat, how the storm caused the sutures on his chest to rip open as he was thrown from the stretcher, he remembers how a harassed and sea-sick young whip of a Doctor had given him more morphine than likely ideal. Then he remembered nothing, then he felt nothing too, and that these days, was preferable to anything else.

Everything was blank then, until flashes and hazy recollections filtered through his drugged state, what was real and what was a dream, he’ll never know. There was the fresh jolt of pain when he was carried from the army ambulance, the white and red cross painted on the side still fresh in his mind. There were ordered barked, the slide of scissors against his uniform as it was cut from his body, the _tutting_ and _tsking_ and shouts for more water, but all in a soft voice, sweet and gentle as his mothers had one been. There was flashes of copper and auburn and a warm palm to his cheek… and then blessedly, thankfully, there was peace at last.

*

His eyes fly open at the feeling of a hand to his forehead and his own fingers lunge for the perpetrator. It takes a few seconds for him to see her, just a glimpse of the nurse sitting beside his bed whose wrist he now holds tightly.

“Easy, easy, you’re safe,” she says calmly, but he notices the way her eyes flick to his hand and the way her knuckles have turned white at the force in which he has grabbed her. He lets her go as if she burned him, so mortified and confused as his head drops back onto the pillow.

Pillow. Bed. He’s in bed.

He takes a deep breath before opening his eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though he does not turn in the direction of the person beside his bed.

“It’s quite alright, you needn’t fret, I’m made of sturdy stuff. Do you know where you are soldier?”

He shakes his head, eyes closing in frustration again.

“You’re at Winterfell, in Kent, not far from Tunbridge Wells. You arrived in Dover yesterday, and here last night. It’s no surprise you’re a bit muddled, if I could get my hand on that medic that gave you that much morphine, I’d have his guts for garters. You’re here to convalesce following your injuries…”

“I know why I am here,” he huffs, with more bite than he means but he’s in pain and tired and confused and so desperately frustrated at being here.

He should still be in France, with his men, with his regiment, where they need him, where he could do some good, not here, in a bed being fussed by some girl barely out of the nursery.

“I’m sure,” she replies curtly. He can tell she has stood now from the chair beside the bed. A partition has been placed around them so he cannot make much of his surroundings, as she riffles through the cabinet next to the bed, “what is your name, soldier?”

He huffs an indignant laugh and then winces at the pain shooting through his chest, he should have bloody stayed at the Front.

“You don’t even know my name? Some convalescence home.”

She marches before him them and he can no longer hide his gaze from hers as she stands at the end of his bed, file in hand.

“Captain Jon Snow, West Yorkshire Regiment, took several bayonets to the chest after mounting an attack near a German trench, dragged back to the line by his own men,” she finishes with a subtle quirk of the eyebrow before snapping the file shut, “I know exactly who you are soldier, I just wanted to see if the morphine had addled your brains as well as your manners,” she said primly.

He opens his mouth for want of something to do, grappling for something, anything to say, but he just closes it again as she deposits the file at the end of the bed and clasps her hands in front of her.

He _has_ been rude to her. It isn’t her fault he’s bitter and angry at the injustice of being here, in England, when it’s the last thing he wants in the world, it isn’t her fault he is too afraid to close his eyes sometimes, or that he is in more pain than he would ever care to admit, it isn’t her fault at all.

Then again, it isn’t his fault that she, beyond measure, is the most beautiful woman he has ever laid his eyes on.

Perhaps the morphine has tampered with his wits.

She tips her head to the side as she appraises him, her uniform is turned out perfectly, like every other nurse he has ever seen, skirt down her legs and nipped at her waist, white, crisp apron, neat and lovely. Now he perfectly understands why Pyp had once declared to them all that he had a nurse waiting for him in London, they had all laughed and called him a lying bastard, but he understands the fantasy now, why someone would want a nurse dreaming of their return, if they all looked like her with her porcelain skin and freckled nose, eyes so blue they look like she is always on the verge of tears.

He wonders if she has a beau to cry for.

It’s her hair though, copper and bright, unlike any colour he has seen before, flashes from dreams not long passed, and as she tips her head to the side and raises an eyebrow to wait his response, a lose curl falls from the rest which has been delicately pinned back, and that one, wild tendril of hair is the only imperfect thing about her whole persons, but it’s his favourite part, and he cannot take his eyes from it.

He clears his throat and swallows thickly.

“Nurse, I’m… sorry, I didn’t mean…” he begins before she waves him off.

“Do not worry yourself Captain, I won’t run from the room in tears, I can assure you. Two syringes of morphine can do that to a man,” she speaks gently but looks at him fiercely down the length of her nose, and despite her grace which is wholly undeserved, he has a sense that she will not let him forget this, “You should rest Captain Snow. I will be back with the Doctor within an hour and then I shall change your bandages, and then…” she begins with determination, “… you will eat, whether you like it or not.”

He’s not likely to argue with her again, so he merely nods his head, suddenly rendered exhausted from a five-minute conversation, likely the longest he has had since he left the field hospital in France.

The nurse bent down to straighten a corner of the bed that was not in need of her tidying before she turned around and made to start to open the partition and push it back.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly, “thank you, and again, I apologies, I’m not myself… I haven’t been myself… Nurse…?”

She turns back to him, partition still under her palms as he spares a glance at the skirt of her uniform as it moves around her legs. She smiles softly before speaking.

“Stark, you may call me Nurse Stark, Captain.”


	2. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was, interestingly enough, one thing they failed to teach them in her training. She was not naive to the fact that she was a young girl, taken fresh from her mother’s skirts to a London hospital, she knew little of the world, and even less about men. But they never taught her how to act around them. She hadn’t seen a grown man naked before her training, and now she was expected to touch them and bathe them and dress them, but she was never truly learnt how to feel about that. 
> 
> Especially when they looked like Captain Snow.
> 
> * 
> 
> Nurse Stark spends some more time with Captain Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The War Generation was a sexually supressed bunch right? Poor devils. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the first snippet of Sansa.

It had been a strenuous morning, but the kind she now loves. She can barely remember a time before the war now, a time of calling cards and gowns and taking tea with her mother in the garden. She doesn’t miss those times. War, like so many of her generation, has hardened her. Ribbons and silks once meant so much to the young, frivolous thing she once was, now her starched, white cap and her soap scrubbed hands are all she needs.

Five soldiers had arrived in the night from the Western Front, having endured a hellish crossing from France to Dover, the poor devils. She had already learned their names, rank, and circumstance before they had arrived. Well, she had learned six, but the sixth man never made it with his comrades.

She had been up with the lark. Sansa loved her vocation, truly, it had been everything she had dreamed it would be, but she could not find it in herself to love the night rotation, so she was blessedly pleased that she would be working during daylight hours for the next few days.

She’d never been prouder of her parents, her dearest mama and papa, when they told them that Winterfell was being given over to the war effort, as a place of convalescence, and she had readied herself with the best of them as every enamelled bed, linens and instrument had arrived. Even dear old Doctor Luwin from the cottage hospital had taken it in his stride and arrived every morning for his rounds.

It seemed, nothing could remain the same with a war on. Her father was so often in London at the War Office, helping in anyway he could and in ways she didn’t hope to understand. Robb was at the Front too, along with sweet Theon, a brother in all but name, and that kept her awake at nights more than anything else. Every time the post boy came up from the village, she was half expecting a telegram containing some horror, that day hadn’t come yet, and she prayed every night that it never would.

Now that the rounds had concluded she could see to settling in the new arrivals fully, having met them only briefly this morning of course, including the intriguing Captain Snow.

It was, interestingly enough, one thing they failed to teach them in her training. She was not naive to the fact that she was a young girl, taken fresh from her mother’s skirts to a London hospital, she knew little of the world, and even less about men. But they never taught her how to act around them. She hadn’t seen a grown man naked before her training, and now she was expected to touch them and bathe them and dress them, but she was never truly learnt how to feel about that.

Especially when they looked like Captain Snow.

He had that look of him of one of the gentlemen you saw in the musicals at the picture house, the dark and quiet type that always lingered in the background. Debonair looks aside, the good Captain had acted the scoundrel with her, but she only had the gall to act half-offended, the poor chap must be in a blind side of pain. He was likely disorientated and frightened as most of the soldiers who arrived at Winterfell packed into the back of ambulances like sardines.

They all acted like they weren’t, like not a thing in the world could scare them, but she saw that for the lie it was.

Captain Snow was no different.

The poor soul still looked half exhausted when she arrived back at his bedside as promised. He was in the sunroom, as they called it in Winterfell, on account for its large, south facing glass windows, which ran all the way to the ceiling. It was light and airy, painted in a dusty primrose colour. It was their mothers favoured room, in peace times it had been their larger formal dining room, or small ballroom, should the need arise, but now it was perfectly appointed to house the twenty beds and patients that were in her charge.

The Captains bed was closest to the windows, which sat just behind her desk at the head of the room, where the nurse on call could make notes and keep a watchful eye on everyone during her working day. It was a good spot, his bed, for any man. He could see the garden and her mothers prize roses from where he lay. She wondered if he appreciated it or not.

“Captain Snow,” she swallowed thickly as she approached, speaking softly so as not to startle him, “I’m sorry to disturb your rest, but I need to change your bandages now.”

He glanced up at her, heaved a weary sigh and finally nodded.

She smiled softly, making here way around the partition she had asked the Orderly to put there not five minutes ago, so at least the man could be afforded some privacy.

“How are you settling in?” she asked as she laid out her tray on the bed side cabinet.

“Fine, seems nice enough here,” he replied evenly. It did not escape her how his eyes flicked out to the lawn beyond the windows and she smiled to herself.

“It is a lovely place, the Manor has stood for eight generations now,” she said, by way of conversation.

“You know it well? This place?” he asked, turning to her where she sat by the side of his bed.

“You could say that,” she said quietly. It wasn’t something she offered outright. What could she say? Actually, my father is the lord here, and I am a lady. She had left her ladies mantel long behind her. She much preferred being Nurse Stark.

“You’ll need to undress, if I may?” she asked, taking a hold of the blanket on his chest. He did not protest, so she pulled it down to his waist and reached for the top button of his navy pyjamas.

“I can do it,” he protested suddenly but she cut him off with a look.

“I’d rather you didn’t, Captain, not until I have seen the extent of your injuries first, then we can begin to assess what you can do for yourself without posing yourself further harm, and what you may need more help with,” she said softly.

“I’m not a cripple,” he grumbled as she began to undo the buttons from the top down.

“I am quite aware,” she said dryly, as her fingers accidentally brushed against the hard planes of his stomach, “I’m sorry,” she said to his wincing, “cold hands, not the best feature for a Nurse,” she paused once she finished to pull apart the opening of his pyjama top and letting it fall to his sides.

She’s seen many a soldier bare chested by this point, but it was easy to see that Captain Snow was strong and lean, with corded muscles rippling down his stomach as he breathed. All of that, however, could be easily ignored as her eyes ran across the bandages that littered his skin, five in total. The bandages were dirty, having drawn through with either blood or goodness knows what in places. She fought the urge to tut under her breath.

Five bayonets to the chest, his file had read. It was unimaginable.

She continued with her work, undoing, and discarding the dirty bandages in a bowl on the bedside cabinet. Some of the bandages were barely more than rags and scraps and she felt a pang of the pity for those in the field hospitals at the Front.

Captain Snow, she noticed, was vacantly staring back out of the window, as if she wasn’t there at all.

She took the respite from his gaze to appraise him properly. He was quite lovely, with his thick dark waves and curls, tousled and roguish, just like how Robb and Theon wore theirs. He looked so strong too, with his large hands, rough from war. He had a strong jaw and lips many a lady could be envious of. Yes, he was quite handsome, but he looked tired, so desperately tired.

His chest though… she wasn’t quite sure how he was even alive.

It took every ounce of her not to react to the angry, blood-red gouges and cuts from where the bayonets had pieced his chest. One was so close to where his heart lay that it was unfathomable.

“Are they bad?” he whispered suddenly, three words spoken so quietly and wretchedly that she was not certain they had truly been said.

She blinked up at him slowly, realising she had been staring, hands folded in her lap for some time now.

He met her gaze and held it. His eyes were so singular, like flint and ice and the storm clouds that would roll in from the coast.

“Please, don’t lie to me,” he begged.

“I would never lie to you, Captain, you have my word,” she said genuinely, “your injuries are quite extensive, although, I am sure you are aware of that,” she said gently, turning her eyes down to the tray she had laid beside him and pinching a swab between the prongs of her instrument and dipping it into clean water.

“I haven’t seen them,” he said after a long pause, she glanced back to him and watched as his eyes battled with his words, “I can’t… I can’t look at them.”

She continued her cleaning wordlessly, trying to be as gentle as she could around the stitches that had been roughly done, she imagined in the heat of shelling and all kinds of horrors as men screamed and bled before the doctors at the Front.

Jon Snow had not been the first man she had met who had struggled with his new reality. There had been the Corporal from Southampton who refused to believe the mustard gas had not rendered him blind, and the Sergeant from Blackpool, who scratched his stump bloody searching for the limb that was no longer there.

The bodies of the men that returned to England were not the only things in need of healing.

“Captain, I quite understand. If, and when, you are ready to look at your wounds, I will be there to help you.”

He stared at her then, and he knew, like so many who had come before him, that he was taking the measure of her, of the young girl with her head full of stars who told all who would listen that with time, maybe everything would be alright.

Maybe it would.

“Aren’t you meant to tell me to keep my chin up and get on with it?”

“Not today Captain,” she smiled, wrapping and tying off the clean bandages and tilting her head to the side to appraise her work, “but if you give me anymore cheek, I may change my mind.”

She glanced back over to him and found him already staring, just as he had been before and she hastily began to redress him, standing to lean over him. Face to face she glanced at him, following his gaze where it ended on the blasted curl that always seemed to come lose from her French knot.

She pushed it quickly back behind her ear.

“You’ll have no more cheek from me, Nurse Stark,” he said softly, his eyes slowly moving from her hair back to her eyes.

She sat back in her seat, satisfied he was comfortable and clean and offered him a shy quirk of the lips as he continued to stare.

“Nurse Stark…”

“Forgive the interruption,” she turned at the sound of Jory, poking his head around the partition, “I apologise my Lady…”

“That’s quite alright, Jory,” she said quickly and perhaps a little too loudly, “what can I do for you?” she asked, standing and straightening her skirts, “I was just finished with Captain Snow.”

The devil of a footman smirked at her, Jory had worked on the estate for as long as she could remember and he would endlessly tease her about her necessity at being called Nurse Stark now, whether she was in uniform or not.

“A letter arrived for you and got mixed up with her Ladyships, she said it was from Mister Greyjoy,” he finished, holding the letter on a tray before her.

“Oh Jory, thank you,” she exhaled and snatched up the letter a little quicker than was polite, but he merely chuckled at her. She clutched the letter happily to her chest. Robb and Theon’s letters were always so infrequent, that any word from them was such a balm, “could you move the partition back to the supply room for me, please?” she asked Jory sweetly, who merely rolled his eyes at her and got to his task.

“If your quite alright Captain, I’ll take my leave,” she turned back to Captain Snow.

“Of course, Nurse Stark, thank you for your help,” he said in his deep, husky voice.

She nodded to him and turned back to her desk, as she went to take her seat, she saw that Captain Snow was looking at her still. He must have followed her as she walked away and she felt a blush stain her cheeks, looking to the letter in her lap to distract herself.

She flicked her eyes back up shyly and met his gaze. Goodness, how he stared. Not last night he had treated her with such distain and now he wouldn’t look away.

She hurried back to her letter and sliced it open quickly with the trout engraved letter opener on the desk, unfurling it and rolling her eyes at Theon’s scruffy scrawl. His words, as always, were brief, and littered with jests and his regular teasing and it brought a smile to her lips, the biggest she had managed in a long while, especially when she read his closing remarks.

_Ring the bells, sweet Sansa, I will be home on leave within the month. I will see you soon._

She tried to discreetly wipe the stray tear that had fallen to her cheek, as she folded the paper, placed the letter safely in the pocket of her apron and hurriedly walked from the room to tell her father.

She felt Captain Snow’s eyes follow her the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think.
> 
> By the way, Sansa and Theon's relationship is purely sibling-like, but the dear Captain doesn't know that...


End file.
